Outskirts of Jacksonville, Florida, Mick Mercer's Garage. 11:40 AM



Mayor Ray Tyson:
Alright, Mercer you got 2 more hours, but I want you out of my city the minute your new 'convoy' show up the locals get nervous when you wastlanders come around. Its hard enough keeping order in this city without you.

Mercer was underneath his new helicopter 'The Mantis' fixing the gyro while the Mayor of Jacksonville was shouting at him, Mick Mercer knew he wasn't welcome there, he was lucky to even be able to rent a garage this close to the city. Normal folks aren't fond of wastelanders, they represent danger and disorder, and most of all true freedom. Which your average brick layer or potato farmer greatly resents. Mercer emerged from underneath the gyro and walked over to the workbench near where the fat mayor was standing and lit up a fresh cuban cigar, taking a heavy draw and blowing smoke in the mayor's face.

I'll be out of here soon, just have my money when I get the oil, old man.
Mayor Tyson stormed out of the garage and slammed the door behind him as Mercer chuckled under his breath. Mick then spun on his heels to the back, this was the 'real' part of the garage, it used to be a truck stop and housed a large number of vans before Mick dismantled them and sold them all for scrap. Mick walked over to The Drivers he had been hiding them in the back, all their cars were parked in this large hangar like room. The heavy Florida sun was beating in through the windows, and the sky was mostly clear.

Mick counted 6 drivers in all as they we rummaging through the war chest, and affixing various things to their cars which were parked surprisingly neatly in the corner of the garage.

Alright convoy, I dont actually know who you any of you are yet. I had dossiers but I was too drunk to read them last night, so state your name and tell me how far along your ride is. I'm listening but Ive gotta fix some of these leaky pipes in hear while you talk, most of these hangars were built in World War 3, and the wear and tear is showing.

Mick pulled out a blow torch and began to fire up as the drivers spoke....

William retrieved a few things from the war chest and returned to his car. He set them down and looked around, nobody seemed to be in a talking mood, so he may as well start. "Well, my name is William Jones, though some people back home call me Glasser. My ride is just about ready, as soon as I get this cooker on the back, and a bit of a cleaning of it."

He got to work placing the flamer on his car, being careful not to damage the
car in the process. "Now this old bird may not be the fastest out their, but when you're in a tight spot, you couldn't ask for a better car. She will get ya ta hell and back, so long as she has fuel in her and a half decent driver behind the wheel. OW!" He cut his thumb on some sharp edge of the flamer and shook his hand about, "Sorry, caught me by suprise."

Calvin Roberts was strapping on his on new vest, watching as his new employer walked towards the group. The vest was a bit ill-fitting, being slightly bigger than he was. As Calvin finished his adjustments, one of the other members of the convoy introduced himself as William Jones. Deciding to be cordial, he adjusted his keffiyeh before placing his arms behind his back.

"Calvin Roberts at your service." Calvin drawled, his native Georgian accent lacing his words, as he nodded to his fellow convoy members, "If ya'll want something shorter, call me Cal." Introduction done, he stepped back to check on his car. Kneeling down, he started to inspect the tire wire, making sure the sharp metal string wouldn't damage his vehicles wheels. The blades of the wire extended a little past the hubcap of the four wheels, and glinted in the few rays of sun that penetrated the batterd garage. The Oshkosh handled well, and being a MRAP, wouldn't flip easily making grinding into other vehicles wouldn't be a problem. Standing up, Calvin grinned slightly as he remembered that the war chariots of old also had spikes on their wheels, waiting to ruin the day of the poor fellow caught in the spinning blades

The rattle gun echoed off the garage walls as each wheel nut was tightened. vvvvrrrrrrrrt
vvvvvvvvvrrrrrrrrrrt vvvvvvvrrrrrrrttttt Valour Valentine had just finished replacing the front brake pads of Banshee III and was almost ready to take the girl out for a spin. Parts were hard to come by these days most needing to be fabricated from what ever old bits and pieces you could scavange from the destroyed cities but Lady Luck, as always smiled upon Valour providing her with a rare set of barely worn front pair of brake pads. Perfect timing considering the shudder from the front end was becoming worse each day.

"Oh my sweet Valentine..." A deep Bronx accent sarcastically spoke from the doorway behind her. Valour's gut lurched and not in the lovey dove nice way. She didn't need to turn around to know that it was none other that the Big Boss's chief debt collector, that asshole rarely made house calls to collect these days without laying down a heavy hand.

The shuffle of heavy boots filled the garage smart man, brought help Valour smirked to herself.
"Well someone's been a good dog. He's let you off the leash for a run eh?" Valour said dryly as she carefully placed the rattle gun to the ground beside her with one hand and searched for one of her larger heavier spanners with the other.
"Now now Val, keep that smart mouth to yourself and we will get this over and done with as quickly as possible" the Chiefs voice stepped closer. Valour stood with spanner in hand turning slowly to face the entourage filling the small garage, she could clearly see she was outnumbered. Five against one in a confined space, she was good but not that good. Fuck.

The chief was within arm reach and closing quickly but Valour had no room to move as she pressed up against the hoisted Banshee to try and keep a little distance between them. He continued in his condescending tone "I'm only going to ask nicely once Valentine, where's his credits?"
Her dark hazel eyes flicked from the Chiefs souring scowl to the blocked exit and his goons- all packed with assortment of hand held crude weapons. Fingers tightened on her spanner, she could get one or two decent blows in before they swarmed her.
"Like I told him before I'll have it in by the end of the month" It was a lie, she had nowhere near the amount she owed.
The Chief scoffed nodding his head "End of the month" he whispered as he half turned away for a second. There was no room to deflect the incoming fist that hit directly below her rib cage. The spanner dropped first clanging on the cold concrete floor the the air rushed from her lungs dropping Valour to her knees. The sharp throb of pain soon followed buckling her to the floor gasping for air like a goldfish out of water.
"End of the fucking month!" He screamed in her face. "What do you think it is! Charity?" The Chief was an imposing man- at least six foot two and the build of a heavy weight boxer, not many people were stupid enough mess with him. He knelt down taking Valour's jaw in one hand, squeezing hard "Look at me Valentine" His voice took a stern tone as he jerked her head. Valour flickered her eyes open as she started to catch her breath, she met the Chiefs ugly face as he continued "You have one week..." He released his grip and Valour curled inwards into a foetal position "I don't care how you get that money... Beg, borrow or whore that pretty little arse of your's out. You know the consequences if you don't." The chief hesitated for a few seconds waiting for a smart arsed comment.
Nothing.
"Do you understand?"
Valour nodded.
Satisfied that he got his point across the goon squad shuffled through the garage exit, leaving Valour sore and sorry for herself on the concrete floor.

Ten minutes later.

"Jimmy... You there. Over."

Static.

"Jimmy, it's me...."
"Val?... Yeah I'm here"
"Look I need transport..."
"Ok, Where to?"
"Jacksonville"
"Florida? Why do you wanna go to that shithole?"
"There's a job down there I need.."

Static.

"I think Mac's doin' a run down there next..."
"Jimmy...I need it tonight" Val interrupted.
"What the fuck Val?"
"I know it's short notice.... Come'on you know I'll make worth your while, can you hook me up?"
There was a long pause as Valour paced back and forth. She had her breathe back but her gut ached like nothin else.
"I might have a guy."
"You're a peach Jimmy, I'll be over soon" Val hung her head and placed her two-way on the work bench with a sigh of relief.

***

15 hours later...

Valour sat on the hood of her Banshee, toying with the only two shells belonging to the vintage Remington M70 rifle that was snugly fitted along the rear parcel shelf of her vehicle. Jimmy had come through with the transport, the truck delivering her only a half hour before some of the 'crew' assembled. Thankfully she managed to catch up on a little sleep on the way down.
She eye balled the newly introduced Mercer as he sucked down his cigar giving lip. He looked like a solid fellah that could clearly look after himself Perfect.

The next introduction was to her left, 'Glasser' and he was definitely not from here. His accent was distinct.... Australian if she wasn't mistaken. Valour had known a few over the years and amongst a bunch of natives his voice was more unique.
Following him was the young kid in fatigues Calvin, if his clothing and vehicle didn't give him away as military then his body posture certainly did. He looked as he was standing in squad waiting for command to bark the next order.
Valour pushed a few teal coloured dreadlocks from her face and stood pocketing the two rounds.
"Well boys... and girl" motioning a subtle nod to the other woman in the workshop "Names Valour Valentine" she slid off the hood "and this" slapped a hand on the nearest tire to her "is Banshee Thee, one of the quickest rotaries you'll find on this side of the coast, eight point sixteen seconds down the quarter mile." She shot a wink to the Australian "but that's nothin compared to what we can do when the road gets tricky" Valour was confident if not a little cocky in her skills and continued with a sly grin "I'm ready to roll."

A scraggy-haired man glanced up from his work at hearing the door open, only to turn back to his job once he confirmed the man behind it. The thick brown gloves he wore had a difficult time fiddling with the intricacies of the piece he was operating upon, but the wastelander managed to latch on well enough. With the loosening of a bolt, Andreis looked up and slapped one arm onto the newly-mounted gun. He grabbed a handle, pushed the weapon forward and then back, and after a moment did it again with a more contemplative frown on his face.

"Good enough," his voice, deep and rough without being gravelly, rung out softly. The wastelander had only mumbled the sentiment to himself, but the large chambers of the hangar had seized the sound and magnified it. Not it made much difference, aside the clatters and sizzling of the other drivers tinkering with their own vehicles.

Andreis shoved the screwdriver into his coat pocket for the time being, where it jangled alongside the brass knuckles. When Mick had offered them the large chest full of neat little 'instruments' to take and play with, Andreis had been the only one to go for the brass knuckles. He thought, at the time, they might complement what he knew of his fighting style- but without opportunity to practice, the driver couldn't be totally sure until he would already be in a full-blown fight.

As Mick told his new hires to introduce themselves again, Andreis only initially replied, "You had dossiers? Didn't take you for that kind of guy, honestly."

People who actually had the forethought to write down stuff to keep track were a relative rarity in this world. Not just the folks who kept journals or anything, but those who would create and keep official records of things, like supplies and cash and people, or whatnot. Considering paperwork wasn't exactly any more more fun even before modern civilization burned to a crisp, any new settlement looking to restore some form of law and order had their work cut out for them if they wanted to keep any of their knowledge on paper.

But then Mick and gone and gotten himself drunk, apparently, so it all went in a 180 anyways. The first three to introduce themselves to their employer were a fellow wastelander, what looked to be a soldier straight out of boot camp, and a foxy lady who clearly held a lot of pride in herself. About the average fare for a road crew, so far.

From the silence that came after Valentine's words, he spoke up, "Andreis Ulysses. My car here is called Wingjack." Another beat of silence came, and he figured he needed a bit more than that. "I don't really have a nickname, so if you want one from me, just make something up. Nothing stupid, though," he picked up the slack, swiveling the gatling gun experimentally again.

Nashota Locklear's trip to Jacksonville hadn't been a hard one. She was already in Florida, she hadn't left the state since shit hit the fan, but she also hadn't traveled far from where she lived, from her reservation. However, word got around surprisingly quick in the wasteland. When she heard about the job being offered, and the amount of credits that would be given upon completion, well, how could a lady pass up such a sweet offer? Granted, she wasn't that car savvy, and that would more than likely make her stand out against the rest. Though, that didn't mean she couldn't drive - she was a good driver. It was just under the hood that sometimes made her raise an eyebrow. She might have to get on someone's good side, preferably a mechanic's, just to assure she had someone who'd help her with Mal if the girl started having some issues. She knew the basics and, right now, she thought that was good enough.

She had been one of the first to arrive at the old hanger that had seen better days. She had been checking a few things out on her, nothing of true import, just killing some time, when Mercer caught her attention. She was underneath the hood of Mal at the time, and didn't emerge since she could hear him fine. When he mentioned he had been too drunk to read their dossiers, an amused snort came from her direction. Though, she had to agree with the man who said Mercer didn't seem like the guy to have dossiers. Writing down stuff just wasn't common practice anymore.

When presented with the two gifts from the war chest, the barbed wire bat had seemed to call to her. It was a pretty thing, and once she picked it up and swung it a little, she liked the feel, the balance, of it, so she claimed it. She also thought Mal would look pretty and dolled up with boarder spikes, and so, she chose those as well. To survive in the wasteland, one had to learn new tricks, new trades, and Nash had learned how to weld. So, not hesitating, she began to figure out a way to get the border spikes onto her car, and to stay on there. There wasn't too many to put up; just the right amount to place them exactly where she needed them. No car hoppers would be jumping onto her hood or back, that was for sure. With a small grin, she lightly touched one of the sharp tips of the spikes; ah, yes, Mal sure did look pretty like this. Some of the sunlight that streamed through a few cracks and holes in the ceiling of the hanger caught on her dusty body, highlighting all her bumps and bruises, dents and scratches, and Nash thought she was a beautiful sight.

She wasn't going to speak first. It wasn't that she was outright rude, or didn't give a shit about all this, but she didn't speak to very many people these days, and so she'd wait for some of the others to speak up. As she was working to secure the border spikes to her car, she listened to everyone's introduction. She rose an eyebrow at William- or, Glasser's, rather, exclamation at cutting his thumb, but she didn't make a comment. She did look up briefly at Roberts when she heard his accent; she couldn't exactly pinpoint where it was from. She had lived in this state all her life, on a reservation, and hadn't met very many people outside of that circle. Now that she acknowledged it, Glasser had an accent too. Again, she wasn't exactly sure from where. She didn't plan on asking right now, either. When the only other female spoke, she did look up, and grinned at her when a subtle nod was directed at her. Girl power, right? Nash almost rolled her eyes at her own thought as she turned back to her car and kept listening.

She didn't even glance at Ulysses and once silence filled the hanger again, she gave the softest of sighs and stood up from her kneeling position, having been rubbing at a dent on Mal just because she could, and straightened herself up. "I'm Nashota Locklear." her Native American accent was strong, considering she had learned her mother tongue first, long before English, honestly. "Nash." she added, because her first name could be hard to pronounce for some people. She glanced around, eyes stopping on Valentine. "Nice to see another beautiful lady," she mumbled, giving her a wink, before looking towards Ulysses. "Is Andy a stupid nickname?" she mused, though it was almost as if it was to herself, like she wasn't quite expecting an answer, before shrugging a bit. She slapped her hand onto Mal's hood, disturbing the dust there. "This is Malila... Mal, if you like. I don't have much to say about her besides she's a kick ass little thing." she grew quiet here, glancing around at everyone, before going back to her work, done with her introduction.

Hanz sat on the hood of his Sd.Kfz idly sharpening the end of the small shank he got from the chest, the small piece of metal was as likely to be used as a weapon as it was a surgeons tool. He was watching the others through his mask while he sharpened, the lens pieces hiding whatever direction his eyes were looking in. He really didn't have to much of an opinion on the other members of this little party but that would likely change as the job went on. For now, however, it seemed time to introduce himself, seeing as how most of the others already have.

After quick tap on the winch installed to the front of his Hanomag with his foot, as much to check it's installation as it is to stall for an extra second, he spoke up to make his name known, his voice slightly muffled through the mask but it didn't hide the accent "Hanz Adalhard, I suppose it is my job to keep you alive if you gets yourselves injured, Ja?" he drew out a stroke on the shank, letting it ring slightly longer than it needed to before twirling the thing in his hand "heh, I'm sure ve'll all be just fine" the others seemed to introduce their vehicle along with themselves but that honestly just seemed silly to him.

@Zetsuko

Amenoko Toshino was watching the other thinking that it was dumb to introduce himself to others but it would be rude to not be friendly with the people he will be riding with,"Amenoko..." Was all the Japanese man said in his deep voice standing peeking his head out of window before sitting in his seat again.

He needed this money for his father and unlike the other's he was doing this for a good case,He just hoped while they are traveling they don't run into Chaser's or worse gang.

Mick finished up cauterizing the pipes as the drivers as made their introductions, they were a weird bunch indeed but Mick was in no position to be picky, and they all looked like they could handle themselves, people don't last long in this world if they cant. Mick walked over to his mantis helicopter and began the fire the engine up, it was spluttering and creaking but the semi-functional ignition finally started to fire up. Mick finally responded to the drivers as he started to open the garage door, and the powerful sun beamed into the dusty hangar.

Yo William, its pretty dirty in here so I'd get Dr Hanz to look at that cut before it gets infected, I dont want to have to quarantine you in the boot of your own car, fella.

Mick then turned to Andries, who was fiddling with the gatling gun on his rough, but ready looking car.

I have dossiers on everything, you don't live to 32 in this shitty county without doing your research on the world around you, and I sure as hell wasn't going to recruit a bunch of random outlaws for such an important and lucrative job, I wouldnt want to waste the ammo trying to protect myself from a daylight robbery...anyway time to move out.

The garage door was now fully open, Mick had stepped inside of his chopper which 'walked' out of the garage with its insect like legs and Mick turned to the convoy as they loaded what little gear they had and jumped into their cars.

Okay Convoy, I'm gonna be your eyes in the sky, switch your in-car radios on so we can all communicate but dont stuff up the channel with too much chatter, it drains my chopper battery.

The Mantis' blades began to whir as it slowly began to hover, first 5 feet then 20 feet then 40 feet off the floor. The radio crackled on as Mick's voice came through suprisingly clearly over the comms.

The road in front of us is surprisingly rocky, although that fat mayor was against it, we are going to be taking the unbeaten path to get out of this shit county, so the path will be very uneven. I'll need the Off-road vehicles to take the lead..Oshkosh, WingJack and The Banshee will be taking the lead of the pack for the first leg of the trip, the rest of you follow in tight formation...we cant afford to get lost in the dustbowl...move out!

The engines of the 7 drivers all roared to life as they peeled out from the garage and left nothing but dust in their wake, the mission had begun.

Calvin acknowledged the pilot with a thumbs up, sliding himslf into the Oshkosh's door. Switching his radio to match Mercer's frequency, Calvin fiddled with the knobs on the Oshkosh's dashboard, he began thinking about his life before everything had gone to hell. He had joined the Army out of High School, to help pay for college, and give himself a bit of legitimacy away from his family. Eight years later, during a stay at Fort Benning, he and his division had been called in to quell some riots in D.C. Grimacing at the memories, he shook those thoughts out of his head and refocused on the task at hand. He turned the radio and sent a message to the members of the little convoy.

"Roger Mantis, this is Oshkosh, taking point with Wingjack and The Banshee. Out", Calvin spoke in his Georgian drawl, the procedure words stirring up a sense of longing in the deserter as he pulled out of the garage. It had been years since he had last used them, and he was slightly rusty. Driving out the garage, he checked his gas meter, and quickly calculated how many mile he would be able to drive he would have to refill. He had modified the M-RAP, giving it a larger container for gas, diesel to be specific, allowing him to go longer before refueling.

"Mantis, this is Oshkosh, I have enough gas to last six hours and 20 minutes, and I got enough diesel to refuel four times. Out"

William hopped into his car and fell in line behind the others. He decided that he would take up the rear of the convoy, his flammer would deter most people, and if worst came to worst he would be able to speed past some of the others. His car doesn't need to be the fastest, just not the slowest. He took stock of his fuel supply and dis his best to calculate how many refuels he had. When he counted he frowned to himself. He had enough fuel in the tank to go for about five hours, on the plus side he had enough to refuel five and a half times, if you include his emergency supply.

He grabbed the radio and switched it to the right channel. "Hey Mantis, it's Glasser. I got about five hours or so of fuel left in the tank, but enough to refuel five or six times. Also, since using the radio wastes your battery, I think we should have our own radio channel to communicate to one another without causing you to lose power and then crash. I do have one question for everyone first. When we stop jext, what does everyone want to eat? I'm a damn good cook, so long as I have stuff to cook."

With a nod to no one particular Valour opened the driver door and slid into the Banshee like a hand into a glove and began her routine. It started with clipping in her five-point harness in and securing the straps holding her into the moulded racing seat, next was the vehicle ignition sequence, Valour reached forward to the dash with her thin fingers flipping three small switches before giving the ignition key a half turn clockwise, there was a whirring sound from behind as the fuel pump kicked in. An array of orange gold and white lights glowed along the instrument panel before her, after a few seconds a small green light popped up above the key signalling the Banshee was primed. Valour turn the key further and the vehicle screamed to life, the rotary engine with its distinctive sound was ready to go.
Lastly Valour fitted her intercom half mask and ear piece and got comfortable, once dialing in her radio frequency Mercer's voice transmitted over the sound of idle engines. He was already whinging about keeping the chatter low Boring trip this gunna be then she thought sarcastically as she shrugged it off.

Mercer barked his orders over the crackled comm system, her instructions were to take the lead with the other two off roaders "Andreis is in the Wingjack and the kid's in the Oshkosh" she murmured to herself.
Valour pushed the clutch to the floor and shifted the Banshee into gear giving it a few good revs. She slowly released the clutch and the vehicle eased forward, Valour engaged another switch, this time for the intercom mic "Confirmed Mantis, this is Banshee three moving out".

Hanz was among the last of the convoy to get moving, having went around to enter his halftrack from the back and messing with his radio for a moment to get it to work before starting the engine and following after the others. Track rolling, he checked his gauges on the move determining his remaining fuel before reporting it as well "I've got fuel left for five hours, maybe five or six refills" after reporting he got of the channel to kept it clear like Mick wanted. He used one arm to quickly pull back his hood and take off his mask, setting it in the passenger seat beside him, and pull up a cloth to cover his nose and mouth to keep himself from inhaling dust.

As he bumped along with the rest he heard another driver, William, asking about what everyone wanted to eat at their next stop "oh can you make good pastries? it's been oh so long since I've found some" his tone was somewhat joking, forgetting for a moment Mick's desire for minimal radio chatter. He chuckled lightly as he set the receiver back down and focused on driving

"Is Andy a stupid nickname?"

He actually had to think about that one. He'd heard some people call him that before, but only some - it wasn't like he regularly socialized or, god forbid, associated with other people well enough to get into the stage of nicknames. There was a time in the past where Andreis insisted he go by the full name for some reason he couldn't quite recall. Probably had something to do with pride and/or heritage. Except, that was just silly- people like him had no such things to speak of.

Mick spoke up, "I have dossiers on everything; you don't live to 32 in this shitty county without doing your research on the world around you, and I sure as hell wasn't going to recruit a bunch of random outlaws for such an important and lucrative job."

The scavenger offered no reply or retort. Andreis couldn't help but wonder if that was meant to be some sort of omen, considering he was a year younger than his employer. He didn't know why he remembered that, considering his tendency of not paying attention to the passing of dates- he scarcely ever recalled his own birthday. Maybe it was time to start again.

Andreis turned back to Nash and answered, "I suppose not."

With little other fanfare, Mr. Mercer beckoned the road crew to prepare to shove off. The employer gave them a brief rundown of their first leg: they would take a more direct path on the rocky plains. With that plan came the requirement for drivers to lead the pack safely through - Wingjack, Oshkosh, and Banshee, the vehicles Mick recognized as suitable for off-road terrain. He really had done his research, however drunk he had been.

Hefting himself onto the roof, Andreis slipped through the hatch and shut the lid behind him. The cockpit was hot and a little dry, a fact that wouldn't change until he built up some speed to let the wind flow. The wastelander only went through a brief checkup before the gunned the engine to life, peeling out of the garage with little hesitation.

"Wingjack here," Andreis reported along with the others as the convoy set off. "Looking good so far. Weather's a bit warm, but conditions are clear otherwise. I'll try and lead us down the clearest path so we can keep good pace."